I think I know why my Dad bought me so many hot dogs.
Back when I was like 10 or so, he took my family to see a Mahoning Valley Scrappers game. After a hard week at work and parenting three unruly children, he finally got to sit back and enjoy the snacks, idyllic weather and the near-comical amount of errors inherent in minor league baseball.
In between innings, something went wrong.
Instead of doing something normal like putting interns in condiment costumes and forcing them to race around the stadium, some yahoo thought it would be funny to load hot dogs into the t-shirt cannon.
The guy manning the t-shirt cannon made eye contact with my Dad from the first-base line and a sort of hatred flashed in his eyes. The assailant singled my Dad out, pointed his weapon at him and fired with the accuracy befitting a Navy Seal.
Of course, I laughed when the foil-wrapped hot dog hit him in between the legs. It was the early 2000s. We as a society were so desperate to avoid talking about Abu Ghraib that we used to go around kicking each other in the crotch to distract ourselves. To a 10-year-old, this was the apex of comedy.
I continued to laugh when my Dad unwrapped his unsolicited gift and discovered the hot dog had been reduced to a humid mush of soggy bun and mashed frankfurter – completely inedible.
It took my Dad roughly 20 years to get his revenge on me for laughing at his pain. For Christmas 2024, my Dad got me one of those Omaha Steak boxes and added on a special treat: dozens and dozens and dozens of all-beef hot dogs.
Perhaps I should give him a break. Perhaps it wasn’t revenge after all. Perhaps he knows I like to grill and wanted to support one of my less self-destructive habits.
Plus, unlike the hot dog that traumatized my father, these hot dogs are not only edible, they’re high-quality and have yet to injure me. I just have more of them than I know what to do with.
I’ve been chipping away at the Hot Dog Vault for the last few months, but progress has been slow.
The most obvious solution is to have a party and share the hot dogs with my friends and family. But is that the coward‘s way out? Should I face my punishment like a man and eat nothing but hot dogs for the next three weeks? Should I pass along the trauma by loading my stash into t-shirt cannons and blasting random people with it?
What would you do with all these hot dogs? The crazier the ideas the better.
Previous columns
Ask Lucas: My boyfriend bought a motorcycle. He’s a bad driver, and I’m scared for him
Ask Lucas: I just started dating someone who isn’t on social media. Is that a red flag?
Ask Lucas: My husband refuses to put things back in the right part of the refrigerator
Ask Lucas: My girlfriend won’t stop biting me
Ask Lucas: I bought a Tesla before Elon went MAGA. What’s a liberal to do with the car?
Whether or not you’re a hot dog expert, I’d love to hear your ideas on what I should do with all these hot dogs. Usually, I’m the one answering “questions,” but I’m all out. Consider this your punishment for not writing questions to me at ldaprile@cleveland.com.
This post was originally published on this site be sure to check out more of their content.
